


heat wave

by Oshii



Series: I Have That Effect on Women ;) Lucifer H/C Prompt Fills [5]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Cain (Lucifer) - Freeform, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Marclo, Vomiting, emeto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 20:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20880149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: Season 3 AU. Marclo. Cain should have listened to Chloe. Heat exhaustion, emeto, H/C.





	heat wave

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked
> 
> Feel free 100% to turn this down, especially because I know it wasn't on the new request list, but I was thinking maybe Cain could get sick when he's actively dating Chloe and that he's a pretty fiercely independent bloke and all and that might be an interesting dynamic.
> 
> Posted March 6, 2019.  
Original link: https://oshii.tumblr.com/post/183258003984/feel-free-100-to-turn-this-down-especially

Marcus Pierce was new, and he was safe.

After the unpredictability of partnering with Lucifer, Chloe found comfort in the new lieutenant’s rigid, no-nonsense firmness and his old-school manners. A little rough around the edges, maybe – dude had all the warmth of a recently-woken barracuda during mating season – but Chloe attributed that to stress. After all, running the precinct and escaping from a mysteriously violent past in Chicago took some time to get over.

When Pierce invited himself to the Axara concert, Chloe had indeed spazzed and stammered in surprise, flummoxed by the boyishly shy smile that had suddenly brightened up his stony face, lighting his blue eyes and softening those rock-hard edges a little. Her heart melted and pitter-pattered and she’d smiled back, _yes_.

When Pierce pressed himself against her in the file closet, big rough hands cupping the sides of her face, denim-hard (and cock-hard) pelvis pushing against hers as their mouths met, hot and wet and urgently, Chloe’s muffled squeal of surprise dissolved into a throaty grunt of lust, and she’d reciprocated in kind. Getting fucked by the beefy lieutenant was like filling up on a hearty meal after a long starving stretch (whereas kissing Lucifer had been the tantalizing taste of the sweetest, most naughtily delicate dessert).

(she kinda missed that dessert, but Pierce was already bringing Trixie chocolate cake, and thus had won).

Marcus Pierce slipped neatly into her life, stepping up and filling every new role he signed up for – partner, lover, confidant – and Chloe took comfort in this new and familiar routine. Pierce was down-to-earth, showed up on time, had Trixie in his pocket (although she didn’t squeal quite as much as when Lucifer had come around), and for the first time in a long time, Chloe was able to finally envision settling down again.

But, as it turned out, she’d conveniently forgotten one nagging detail of domesticity – the _in sickness and in health_ part that she’d never had to confront with Lucifer.

(as if they’d actually been together, she reminded herself, why did she keep thinking of him now?)

When a scorching heat wave swept through the suburbs later that month, sending temperatures soaring into the triple-digits and frying AC units through half the city as power grids surged and flickered and failed, Chloe saw less and less of Pierce as he was increasingly called to duty, working with the charter township to supply both inner-city relief efforts and increased patrol rates in problem areas as crime skyrocketed. Violence drove Pierce, and it was gonna drive Chloe, too, if this heat didn’t break soon.

(Lucifer seemed casually unbothered, barely sweating beneath his suit jacket, licking his popsicle with the most irritatingly cheeky grin as she groaned and fanned herself and slid her aviators up her nose _again_).

The morning after the next dawned just as hot and miserable, but Chloe sighed relief into her pillow. It was her day off, and she’d made – **_MADE_** – Pierce stay home, too, at least for a few extra hours.

Dan was taking Trixie to school, Lucifer was off doing…whatever the hell he did in his spare time (careening jetskis off Santa Monica pier onto a monogrammed yacht filled with topless MILFs, probably), and Pierce was yawning to her left, stretching and rolling over to wrap a muscled arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close for a good-morning cheek kiss. They’d made a rule about morning cheek kisses.

“Good morning,” he whispered in her ear, all rumbly and sultry and sexy.

“Morning,” she mumbled back, still gravelly with sleep, rough as a young Kathleen Turner.

The air conditioning in her apartment still worked, albeit with enormous effort (her utility bill was gonna be _balls to the wall _but fuck, right now, she didn’t care). Chloe sat at the breakfast bar in her thinnest robe, hair still damp from the shower, and sipped at her coffee, waiting for Pierce to join her.

Pierce came around the corner dressed in a blue workout tank, shorts, and running shoes. Armband on, buds around his neck, rett to _go_. He brought his wrist up and checked his Fitbit, resting heart rate set.

“Oh, _hell_ no,” Chloe blurted, setting her mug down before she threw it at him. “You are not going out there, RUNNING, in this heat.”

He looked up at her, mouth set in Rigid Determination ™. “Can’t use a day off to get soft,” he quoted, probably. “I’ll be back. Just going on a short run. Eight miles instead of twelve.”

Chloe just stared at him. The stare hardened into a glare. “Only eight miles,” she nodded, sarcastically. “So that’ll be…Fifth and Market? Where I’ll have to go scoop you up after you collapse from heatstroke?”

Pierce did have the decency to widen his eyes a bit, going for innocence with an offered shrug. “It’s hot.”

She just sighed, the weariest and most explosive sigh, closing her eyes and still powering through the sigh when he bent down to kiss her goodbye before jogging out the door. The slam reverberated through her soul, and she whimpered in defeat as she sipped her coffee and realized it had gone cold. Everything sucked and was terrible.

By the time Pierce came back, Chloe was finished with her breakfast _and_ the dishes_ and_ was scrubbing the countertop, head shooting up like she could smell the sweat pouring from his disgusting body.

“Oh, Lord,” she murmured, straightening up, abandoning her sponge in her haste to assist him. Pierce was braced against the doorway, sides heaving and soaked with sweat. He panted and gasped and looked up with wild blue eyes set in a beet-red, shining face.

“It’s…” he rasped, still struggling for breath, “_really_…hot…out there.”

Then, his knees promptly gave out, and Chloe shrieked – couldn’t help it, really, as his whole 220 or whatever came crashing down into her frail lady arms. “_Marcus_!”

When he merely offered a low moan in response, she grunted and, bracing herself, lifted most of his weight over her shoulder, uttering an animal noise of straining labor as she dragged him to the nearest chair. It was sticking out from the dining room table, and she was more than happy to deposit his sweating body there.

“Marcus,” she repeated, cupping his clammy face in both palms, forcing him to focus. “Stay with me. I’m gonna get some cool towels, I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t have much choice besides compliance – the heat exhaustion left him weak, vulnerable, unsteady and, frankly, increasingly nauseous. But, Pierce being Cain being Pierce, used to eons of solitude and self-reliance, still attempted to negotiate despite his current state of distress.

“M’fine,” he waved her hands away, shifting uncomfortably and blinking wearily, trying to get his shit together. He was a long way from fine, and he knew it – running several miles in sweltering triple-digit heat took its toll on any body, even his immortal frame. “Jus’…need some water. I’m fine.”

Chloe whirled and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, unscrewing the cap and handing it to him. “You need to listen when I advise you against going on a stupid half-marathon run for funsies in this weather.”

He shakily raised the bottle to his lips, spilling most of it down his chin and neck, throat bobbing as he swallowed greedily. Droplets trailed fresh streaks down the dirt of his skin, and his pulse visibly skittered below his jawline. Fast and strong. Dehydrated.

“Stop,” Chloe scolded, gently, reaching for his hand to still the bottle. “You’re gonna get sick going that fast. Little sips.”

Pierce ignored her, thick fingers crushing the plastic as he drained the last of the water. Gasping in relief, he looked up at her, and opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it – instantaneously, his eyes widened, and a hand clapped over his mouth, and he nearly knocked the chair backwards in his scrambling haste to stand and dash for the sink, barely registering Chloe’s calls of concern over the roaring in his ears.

Pierce was huge and bulky leaned over the kitchen sink, head disappearing beneath his arched shoulders. The slabs of thick muscle beneath his straining, sweat-soaked tank top clenched visibly as he heaved up the water he’d just chugged, fulsome and liquid and terrible. _God_, he’d wished for death many times over the past several centuries, sometimes more vehemently than other times, and now was one of those times. Again, he cursed his cursed mark, vowing once more to rid himself of his immortality at any cost.

His silent lamentations (and not-so-silent expulsion efforts, seriously, sounded like a drunk frat boy in here) were interrupted by the sudden bliss of cold, wet cloth draping across the back of his neck, accompanied by a small hand rubbing soothing circles across his back and shoulders. That was Chloe murmuring in his ear – _Marcus, it’s okay, I’m here, you’re okay_ – and, wow, he didn’t deserve her goodness.

“Okay,” she repeated, trailing her hand down his spine and letting it linger. “You think you’re done? Let’s go into the living room and lay on the couch, and I’ll go get some more towels. You gotta cool down.”

“Chloe,” he rasped, spitting a string of phlegm down the drain and coughing for good measure. “’m _fine_.”

“Marcus,” she replied, and lifted her hand off his back. The disappearance of its weight, small and fragile as it was compared to his bulk, felt enormous. “If you say you’re _fine_ one more time, I’ll make sure you aren’t. Now, c’mon, help me help you into the living room, so I can sponge-bathe you back to life.”

He might have heard her even utter an_ idiot_ under her breath as they, together, staggered off.

Chloe Decker was strong, and she was definitely going to be his undoing – and the key to his salvation.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I don’t know if L.A. has a charter township, or if I’m using that term correctly, and “Fifth and Market” is a street corner I totally made up for convenience. Also, I enjoy the works of Kathleen Turner, and that simile I used was merely an appreciative nod at her famous signature husky rasp.


End file.
